Delhi Tourism Co.

The low pitched growl of the yellow DTC bus swims and echos between the apartment blocks as it moves grumbling in a cloistered alley. I mimic the growl and feel my adam's apple ebbing.

Cars sit proudly in the undifferentiated dawn light, washed and clean. Their mahouts lie beside them, unwashed and tired. They all passy by the dirty bus windows in a continious stream os parade.

In the soft morning monsoon light, filtered by frolicking clouds, the green seats of the bus look floroscent. The bus weaves circles around a roundabout. It wheezes, coughs and stops at the bust stop next to Mother Dairy.

Dark skinned schoolgirls with sunshine bouncing off their oiled plaited hair chatter in cause-less glee. Skirts drop till ankles, until they are no more than plain blue ghagras. They enter the bus moving nearer, moving to the middle, escaping prying hands and jutting elbows. Outside, a feverbird couple keeps pace with the bus, flying low, singing from null to notch. The couple climaxes and drops down.

The four girls stand beside me. One's plait is poorly done, thankfully so. A coquetteish curl falls
down to lips maroon.

My pseudo-chivalry pokes my intertia. I consider the pros and cons. I get up, and I get no mileage. These are only school girls. I sit on my arse and I get to sleep. I sit. and. I sleep.

A rude speed-breaker jolts the innards of the yellow bus, and I get displaced. My head hits the window bar and my Apprentice dreams vaporise and drift away in the morning wisp. I rub my eyes open and see the girls whispering and snickering at me. I fly into a misogynist panic. I feel shamed and naked.

I check my zipper, it's done. I check my acne, have they erupted? No, they haven't. I am sweating now. I realise that I probably seem more foolish now than ever.

This is my problem. I can't walk through a clutch of playing kids. When I try, my feet get entwined in each other, I break into a sweat, my eyes are locked on my toes and my knees knock against each other.

I feel those cruel X-ray eyes on me. Nothing escapes the kids. They can diagnose my imperfectness. To the rest of the world I might be a smartass, but to them I am the ass.

So here I am, smarting under the stare of four girls, who are wearing oiled plaited hair in sailors' knots. Red ribbons dangle from the knots. My throat has gone dry. I reach for the Gatorade in my bag. The lemon flavor irrigates the parched throat, and just then, as that sonofabitch Murphy predicted, another one of them darn speedbreakers jolt me and the lemon flavor spreads over my brown pants.